The Soldiering Life
by bandofinsiders
Summary: In an alternate universe, Alfred F. Jones and Arthur Kirkland meet as soldiers fighting on the same side in a vicious war.  Arthur is confused by his feelings for the American boy, and must struggle with them as the war wages on all around him.
1. The Beginning

Arthur lay still in the darkness. A sliver of light crept up his bunk and down part of his face, making his green eyes look almost luminescent. The other soldiers were asleep, tired from a long and weary day. The only sound in the room was their collective breathing, shallow and short.

"Alfred, are you awake?" Arthur hissed into the darkness. No response. Arthur pulled himself over the bunk and peered down at the blond boy beneath him.

Alfred had fallen asleep with his glasses still on and they were now dangling off his left ear. Arthur smiled to himself. It was just like Alfred to be so careless. He stretched out an arm to remove them, but before he could, Alfred's eyes flew wide open.

"Ah, ah Arthur? What are you doing?" Alfred asked, grabbing Arthur's wrist in mid-air. A curious talent of Alfred's was the ability to wake extraordinarily fast, a talent Arthur was now cursing.

"Y-your glasses…" Arthur stuttered, thankful that the darkness was hiding his cherry-red face.

Alfred chuckled softly and removed them, tucking them into a pocket.

"Thanks," Alfred said, as he settled back down on his pillow. "Why were you looking at me anyways? Dreaming about me?" Alfred teased.

"N-no! I just... I wanted to see if you were awake."

"Well, I am now. What do you want?"

"I was just bored. Wanted to talk…"

"About?"

"Ugh, forget it," Arthur grunted and turned back to his bunk. The pair was silent for several minutes, although Arthur could hear Alfred fidgeting in his bunk. He was always restless. Arthur had often said that Alfred seemed like a cartoon come to life: boisterous, colorful, and loud.

Alfred finally broke the silence. "So, Arthur, what're you going to do when this is over?"

Arthur sighed. "I'm not sure. When I was younger, I wanted to be a lawyer."

"A lawyer?" Alfred laughed.

"How the hell is that funny?"

"I can just imagine you screaming at everyone that you're right, that's all."

"You're the only one I scream at."

"Thanks, it's an honor."

"How about you?" Arthur asked, curious about what someone like Alfred would want to do with his life.

"To be honest with you, I don't want this to end. I mean, it's rough out here, but it's better than working at some dumb job all day. I don't know, I guess I like the adventure…" Alfred replied, his voice trailing off.

"Something's wrong with you. You want to live like this forever?"

"Well, it means I get to be with you forever," Alfred replied sarcastically, although that didn't stop butterflies from forming in Arthur's stomach.

"Oh. Uh, so what's your hometown like, Alfred? Do you have a girl back home waiting for you?" Arthur asked as his fingers nervously played with a lock of hair.

"My hometown's boring, and the girls are the same. What about you, you got a girl?"

"Never."

"Never?"

"Never."

"Well, that doesn't surprise me," Alfred joked, and he reached out to punch the bottom of Arthur's mattress. "I'm sure you'll get a girl someday. Maybe if you get enough money to offset your personality."

Arthur forced a laugh. "Maybe… maybe."


	2. Shots in the Dark

Arthur could feel the skin harden where the wooden handle of the shovel rubbed against his hands. Cold rivulets of sweat ran down his back, making him shiver in the heat.

"Ah, crap!"

Arthur turned to see Alfred clutching his hand, spots of red dripping down into the dirt below.

"Must've pierced the skin," he said through gritted teeth as he bent down to pick up his dropped shovel.

"Are you an idiot? You can't keep digging." Arthur grabbed the taller boy by the wrist and pulled him down into the trench, hidden from view. "I've got a couple of bandages from yesterday's medical training. Here…"

He quickly set to work, first pouring some water from his canteen over Alfred's palm to wash off the blood, then wrapping the white bandages around the younger man's hand. "It's a little tight," Alfred complained, but a glare from Arthur mollified him.

"Good as new."

Alfred held up his hand and smiled, then squeezed Arthur's shoulder with his uninjured hand. "Thanks, Artie." They remained awkwardly crouched in the dirt.

"Don't mention it," Arthur said, feeling his face grow hot, this time not from the sun.

The two of them got back to work, worried that their superior might see them and think they were slacking off. The soldiers had been split into pairs that morning and made to dig trenches, ostensibly as training for when they'd be deployed, but there were rumors that at any moment the barracks might be attacked. To scare Alfred, Arthur had told the boy they were digging trenches for the dead bodies of soldiers that were killed in battle, ones the army didn't have time to give a proper burial. Arthur had told the younger soldier that he'd even seen some of the soldiers' ghosts lingering around the trenches at night, a story which had sent Alfred straight under the covers.

"Did you hear about Francis?" Alfred asked, interrupting Arthur's train of thought. He shook his head and Alfred continued, "He managed to sneak some booze-"

"What? How?"

"The last time we were in town, he begged some local girls to buy it for him." Alfred stopped digging long enough to roll his eyes.

"Hopefully he won't get caught…"

"Hopefully. Anyways, you didn't let me finish! Later tonight, Francis and Mattie are gonna sneak out and throw a little picnic."

"A picnic? With just alcohol?"

"You got better plans?"

Arthur wiped the beads of sweat that had formed on his thick brows. "No, I guess not. So, that means I'm invited?"

"Of course. They invited me, and you're my best friend, so you have to go." Alfred laughed. "After you're done with med training, we'll all meet up at dinner to plan everything out, then sneak out later tonight." Three short whistles interrupted Arthur's reply: digging time was over. The pair climbed out of the trench and stood back to admire their work.

"Not very deep," Alfred said finally.

"Or long," Arthur admitted. They paused, then broke out in a laugh.

* * *

><p>"Let's see you make and apply a makeshift tourniquet, Kirkland. You've got a minute, use anything you see before you."<p>

Officer Daniels, or as he was known around the medical tents, Old Danny, stood next to Arthur so closely the soldier could feel his breath against the nape of his neck. Ignoring the invasion of his personal space, he set to work on constructing a makeshift tourniquet for the dummy lying on the cot.

He slipped on a new pair of latex gloves, then grabbed the sheet off the bed and ripped a corner. He scanned the room for something he could use to twist the sheet, but his nerves got the better of him and he stood there unmoving, not sure of what to do.

"Thirty seconds, Kirkland."

In a panic, he rushed out of the tent and scanned the ground for a stick. He found one straight enough and rushed back inside, quickly folding the sheet into a bandage and tying it above the dummy's knee. He tied another knot around the stick and twisted it, stopping the dummy from "bleeding out".

"Done. Nice job," Old Danny said as he inspected the tourniquet.

"Thanks, sir, I've been practicing."

"Oh?"

"My friend, Alfred, he gets bruised up a bunch. He's so careless…"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Jones! I see him in the mess hall- or, rather, I hear him," Old Danny chuckled as he began unraveling the bandage on the dummy's leg.

Arthur laughed. "Yes, he can be pretty loud."

"He's a very interesting fellow though. Gave up a scholarship to fight in the war."

Arthur's brows furrowed. Had he heard that correctly? "A scholarship? To university?"

"Yes. I asked him about it once- we met during his physical- and he said he wanted to be an engineer and work on planes, but once he got there he found academia unsuited to him."

"I had no idea…" Arthur replied, his voice trailing off as he tried to imagine Alfred as a student.

Old Danny turned around and smiled. "You've no idea why any of us are out here, boy. Always remember that."

* * *

><p>"Bull's-eye." Alfred lowered his rifle and smirked. The coin he had just shot went spinning out into the grass below.<p>

"Merde!" Francis exclaimed when he found it, holding it up for the other three men to see. Alfred had given it a neat, round hole. "Not possible!"

"Of course it is, I'm the best shot around," Alfred bragged. He motioned for another sip of the wine bottle and Matthew passed it to him.

"Alright, alright. We get it," Matthew giggled, then fell down in the grass. The other men laughed as they watched him curl up on the spot. The boy was an obvious lightweight.

"I can't wait to use my skills on the actual battlefield," Alfred grumbled. "Toss another one up, Francis."

"You're so naïve," Arthur said, his eyes boring a hole into Alfred's back. "War isn't like your little shooting games."

"Oh, and how do you know?"

"'Cause I'm not a clueless nineteen-year old kid." This threw Matthew into another fit of giggles, while Francis tried to avoid getting sucked into another Alfred-Arthur argument by busying himself with tossing coins.

A silver dollar sailed into the night sky. Alfred took aim. Another perfect shot.

Realizing he was being ignored, Arthur reached for the wine bottle and took a healthy swig. His face was already slightly flushed and the stars in the sky already seemed a little blurry. Before he knew it, the whole bottle was empty. The last thing he remembered, before blacking out completely, was the sound of another bullet hitting a coin.

It was another shot that woke him up, and then a loud scream.


	3. One More Thing

**A/N: Thanks to everyone following/reviewing/favoriting this story! I'd reply to all of you individually.. but I'm still trying to figure out how to do that. x) Also, sorry to anyone who received multiple notifications of a new chapter, I messed up the formatting and had to upload it again!**

* * *

><p>"Oh god, oh god…"<p>

"It won't stop! Jesus Christ…"

"Don't just stand there!"

Arthur rubbed his eyes several times, hoping that all would make sense with a simple adjustment of the eyes to the bleary morning light, but the scene taking place still left him confused. Matthew was lying in the grass, clutching at his thigh, his forehead pressed against the dirt. Alfred was staring at him wide-eyed, his hands shaky and white, while Francis was desperately trying to wipe away the blood pouring out from Matthew's wound. His uniform looked like it had been dipped in the stuff.

"W-what's going on?" Arthur stumbled to his feet, his vision still blurry. Alfred glanced up at him with his mouth ajar.

"We don't know," Francis replied. "Alfred and I fell asleep- I think Matthew tried to use the gun and it discharged by accident."

"Oh, oh- make it stop!" Matthew hissed, and began to claw at his pant leg in an attempt to stop the harsh fabric from rubbing against the bullet wound.

"I-it's my fault, I left the gun on the ground- I thought I'd used all the bullets." Alfred's shock had faded away and he was now rambling on.

"Move." Arthur crouched down next to Matthew and pushed Francis' hands away. "Do either of you have a pocketknife?"

Alfred pulled one out from his pocket and handed it over, watching as Arthur cut the fabric away from the wound and held the leg up. Arthur glanced over at Matthew's face, reddened and sweaty, as the man continued to writhe in pain.

"I won't be able to stop the bleeding by myself. Go to the tents and find Daniels," Arthur ordered Francis, but the Frenchman looked reluctant.

"We'll get in trouble-"

"I don't care," Arthur snapped. Francis still looked hesitant, but after another agonizing scream from Matthew, he broke out into a run for the tents. Arthur turned his attention to Alfred.

"Alfred, hold his leg up, alright?"

Arthur then turned to his own leg and cut off a piece of fabric, laying it over the wound and pressing down hard. The two men waited for Francis to return in a long silence, broken up periodically by Matthew's quiet whimpers and sharp gasps for air.

Arthur looked up from the wound at Alfred. The younger soldier's face was flushed red and his eyes wild. It suddenly hit Arthur how very tired he was himself, and how he probably looked as bedraggled as Alfred did.

"D-do you think we should move him?" Alfred asked. Francis still hadn't returned.

Arthur shook his head. "No. He'll be back soon."

Alfred nodded, his eyes falling on Arthur's hands. "Do you need help applying the pressure? Your hands are shaking." He reached over, placed his left hand over Arthur's, and pressed down.

Arthur looked away and gulped. "Thanks."

After several minutes of unbearable pain for Matthew, the trio finally heard the arrival of footsteps and watched as Francis came running up over the hill, followed closely by Daniels.

"What the hell is going on?" The officer asked as he bent down to examine Matthew's wound. Alfred slipped his hand off of Arthur's to set Matthew's leg down and Arthur moved over to make room for the doctor, who was staring at him incredulously.

Arthur avoided his superior's gaze as he pleaded, "Please sir, don't tell anyone."

* * *

><p>Matthew rolled his pant leg down over the wound, then stood up to practice walking on his shot leg. He had a slight limp, but it wasn't noticeable enough to tip anyone off to what had happened the night before.<p>

"Thank you so much," he gushed to Daniels, who waved him off without looking at him.

"I'd like to thank you, as well," Arthur added, and Daniels gave him a curt nod.

"We all would," Francis said.

The doctor cleared his throat, and then spun on his heel to address the four soldiers. "What you four did was irresponsible and stupid. Honestly, you should all be thrown out of the army. You're lucky the war needs men." He looked at each of them, then shook his head slowly. "Go on and leave, before I change my mind."

Francis wrapped an arm around Matthew's shoulder to discreetly help the younger man with his limp, and the pair started for the exit. Alfred followed behind them, but just as Arthur turned to go, Daniels reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder.

"I need to talk to you, Kirkland."

Arthur nodded for Alfred to go on then turned to face Daniels. "What is it, sir?"

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to take you out of medical training," Daniels said. He was looking down at the floor in an attempt to avoid eye contact.

Arthur felt the color drain from his face. He wanted to protest, beg for Daniels to reconsider, but he knew he would be pushing his luck. He couldn't afford to be discharged from the army, none of them could.

"I understand, sir," Arthur replied. He walked out of the tent looking like a man on death row.

* * *

><p>That night, neither Arthur nor Alfred could sleep. After lights out, the two men were surrounded by walls of snoring, but they were left to toss and turn.<p>

"Arthur, you still awake?"

"Yes."

"What did Daniels want?"

Arthur's face was half-buried in his pillow. "I'm not doing medical training anymore." He listened to the springs under Alfred's bunk squeal as the blond shot straight up in bed.

"What? But you're the most talented trainee-"

"Talented trainees don't-" Arthur leaned over the bed frame and whispered, "-let their friends get drunk and shoot themselves."

The two men looked at one another in silence, their faces barely illuminated by the weak light of the moon creeping through the dirtied windows, until Alfred finally spoke in the quietest tone Arthur had ever heard the younger man use. "It's all my fault. Sorry."

Arthur sighed. He couldn't deny a certain amount of anger towards all three of his fellow soldiers, but he knew it wasn't solely their fault. He had gone along with it.

"It's fine. It's fine," he repeated, to both Alfred and himself. He lay back down in his bunk and pulled the covers up to his chin.

Arthur listened to the springs under Alfred's bed creak again and the rustle of the boy's pillows as he settled back down.

"You know, you should give up law, Artie."

"…What?"

"You'd be a good doctor."

Arthur chuckled softly. "Thanks, Alfred."

"I can see why you liked medical training. When we were pressing down on Matthew's hand… what a rush! The two of us the only thing stopping him from certain death…" Alfred shook his head in awe. "Amazing."

"It wasn't that serious. He got hit in the thigh, so there was less danger of him-"

"Aw, come on, Artie! You didn't feel anything when we were stopping the bleeding?"

Arthur flashed back to Alfred's hand on top of his, the rough palm pressed against his knuckles. He shut his eyes and tried to remember it as vividly as he could.

"Yeah, I guess I did feel something."


	4. Letters and Jam

Letters had arrived for the recruits for the first time since training had begun. The sound of papers shuffling and the ripping of envelopes filled the room. Arthur and Alfred sat side by side on the bottom bunk, each reading their letters quietly to themselves.

"Dear Arthur-

We hope you're doing well. We're sorry we won't get to see you come Christmastime, but perhaps you can take a leave of absence after training? Thank you for the money you sent home. Sorry for the shortness of this letter, but I'm sure you don't need a lengthy one to understand how much we all miss you.

With love,

Your Brothers (N. & S. & W.)"

Arthur stuffed the letter back into the envelope without care and tossed it onto the mattress. A little over a month of training, and that was the best he got? He glanced over at Alfred who was busy rolling up his letter as tightly as he could.

"Got a light?" He asked. When Arthur didn't answer, he pulled out a match and lit his letter-turned-cigarette, inhaling the smoke deeply.

"Alfred! Your letter-"

Alfred grinned out the side of his mouth, the cigarette just barely hanging onto his lips.

"What? It wasn't worth keeping." He pursed his lips and blew a smoke ring, which the pair watched as it slowly moved through the air.

"W-well, you'll be coughing up something fierce. I assume that letter had ink on it? That's not good for your lungs."

Alfred didn't answer, instead choosing to leave the barracks and join the soldiers gathering outside who hadn't gotten any letters in the first place. Arthur rushed out to follow, but ended up colliding with Alfred, who had stopped dead in his tracks.

"What's the matter, Alfred?" The Englishman asked. A crowd had gathered and the steady buzz of hissed whispers filled the air. Alfred turned around, revealing a drill sergeant standing in the middle of the crowd.

"Gentleman, spread the word. Today is your last day of training." His delivery was monotone, as if he were merely listing what the soldiers would be eating for dinner that night. It was so unfitting for the occasion that some men weren't quite sure they had heard him right.

"We should go tell Matthew and Francis," Arthur said. Alfred nodded in agreement and the pair walked back to the barracks. However, they were surprised by the sight of their friends standing at the entrance with Dr. Daniels in their company.

"Kirkland, Jones. Could I have a word?"

* * *

><p>"Why are they sending us to some god awful village in the middle of nowhere?" Arthur asked as he shoved a spoonful of jam into his mouth, a gift sent to Matthew from his grandmother.<p>

Francis sighed, "I haven't a clue. It's a small French village. We should be going to the frontlines."

Matthew slid the jar of jam across the table and swallowed a spoonful of his own. With his mouth full he asked, "Aren't we lucky though? Won't it be less dangerous there?"

"No, there's gotta be a reason they'd be sending a couple of troublemakers there. Daniels probably wants to get rid of us," Alfred replied as he leaned back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest.

"Whatever the reason, I suppose we should all get to sleep. It'll be a long day," Matthew said as he ate the last bit from the bottom of the jar.

* * *

><p>The sun was out, but the weather hadn't quite caught on. The handful of soldiers deployed to the village stood shivering in their two straight lines. The reason for their being there immediately became clear as they marched through the village, the smell of burnt flesh and hair stinging their eyes. Wounded soldiers seemed to crowd every available surface of the town, milling about with their yellowed eyes and makeshift bandages.<p>

"Those of you with medical training will be treating the soldiers; the rest of you will be protecting the village in shifts. When the last man has been treated, we'll begin an evacuation and meet with the rest of them on the frontlines. Is that understood?" Daniels was their superior now, and Arthur couldn't help but feel slightly afraid of the man and how he might abuse the knowledge he held over the foursome, but there wasn't any time to dwell on it. The soldiers were being assigned their quarters.

"You'll be staying in these villager's homes. Represent your mother country well," Daniels called out to the first pair.

Arthur and Alfred stood next to each other in line, patiently awaiting their turn.

"D'you think he'll let you treat the soldiers?" Alfred asked, his voice barely qualifying as a whisper.

"Maybe, we haven't got many men," Arthur replied.

"Well, I hope so. I can't see you on guard." Alfred smirked and looked at Arthur out of the corner of his eye.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Arthur hissed, but Alfred couldn't answer as they were next in line.

"Ah yes, the inseparable Jones and Kirkland. You two will be staying with the Hulets. Both of you will be on guard duty." Daniels pointed to a small, run-down building, barely bothering to glance up from his clipboard. Alfred seemed ready to protest, but Arthur shook his head quietly, and the two men started for the house.

Arthur reached to knock on the door, but before he could, Alfred burst in. An elderly couple sat in the front room, looking surprised at the blond intruder.

"Hello, I'm Alfred and this is Arthur. We'll be staying with you."

The woman smiled, her eyes crinkling around the corners, and pointed a gnarled finger at herself. "Cotilde." She then pointed at her husband, who was looking at the two soldiers suspiciously, and said, "Claude." She gestured to the table before them and the meager bits of food displayed: a single loaf of burnt bread and a sorry and soggy looking slice of cheese.

"Thank you," Arthur said and the pair took a seat at the table. He took a slice of bread and ripped it in half, giving one to Alfred. He felt slightly guilty taking food when there was very little to begin with, but they hadn't eaten since morning. The two of them swallowed their bread down dry, and then Cotilde led them upstairs. There was only one bedroom, and the Hulets had given it up to the soldiers.

"Sleep," Cotilde ordered, and shut the door behind her.

* * *

><p>"So, this village is used to rehabilitate soldiers?" Alfred asked as he narrowed his eyes, looking out over the seemingly endless fields that surrounded the village. A dry breeze blew through the grass, making the long blades beacon like fingers.<p>

"Yeah, that's why they're so worried about an attack. Apparently one's already happened, which is why there are so many wounded soldiers," Arthur replied.

"I see. No wonder we were sent here." Alfred stretched his arms above his head and sighed. "The beds we have to sleep in are already killing me. And did you see the rats?"

"There weren't any rats."

"Trust me. There were rats." Alfred shivered. "Oh well, we'll only be here for a short while. I wish we could help out that couple though, they're stuck here till the evacuation."

"It's a shame," Arthur agreed.

"I wonder where Mattie and Francis ended up, we haven't seen them since yesterday," Alfred, tiring of having to stand in one spot, was now marching back in forth and kicking clods of dirt.

Arthur coughed as the wind blew the dirt towards him. "I haven't a clue. Will you please just stand still?"

"I'm so bored. I take back what I said; I wish we were still in training." Alfred wiped a sleeve across his forehead and sighed once more.

"Wouldn't you rather be at home?"

"No, not really."

"What about school? And your scholarship?"

Alfred stopped marching and turned to face the Briton. "My scholarship? How'd you find out about that?"

"I-I… Daniels told me," Arthur admitted. He had forgotten whom he had received that particular piece of information from.

Alfred turned away and began drawing lines in the dirt with the toe of his boot. "Yeah, it's true. I gave it up. I got sick of school. That's why I burned up that letter-," he glanced over his shoulder, and then turned back again, "-it was my old man complaining about me enlisting. Again."

"Ah, I was wondering what that was about…"

"So, why'd you toss your letter?" Alfred grinned. "I was watching your face while you read it. You looked angry."

Arthur shook his head sadly. "My brothers sent it to me. They're my only family and they could barely get out a paragraph."

"Right. Brothers can be a pain."

"They've always treated me like crap."

"Well, at least you've got me. And Mattie and Francis," Alfred said with a smile that Arthur returned.

"Right, you guys are better than nothing, I suppose." Arthur smirked and the two men began to laugh.

As night started its descent, they began the long walk back to the village. When they could see the lights from the houses on the outskirts of town, Arthur turned to Alfred and asked, "What do you think we'll have to do tomorrow?"

"More of the same, I guess."


	5. The Old Man's Friend

Death was skeletal. A black hood partially hid his face.

Arthur was lying on a cot in some tent in the middle of nowhere, the air stale as if it had been sealed off for years. The sheets were reddened and dirtied. Death was holding him by the chin.

"Arthur? Arthur?" It was Alfred's voice, booming and echoing. He could see the silhouette of the boy growing larger and larger outside the tent.

"I'm in here!" Arthur shouted, pushing away Death's spindly fingers. But Alfred's shadow appeared to be getting smaller.

"I'm here! Alfred?" The silhouette had disappeared now, leaving Death and Arthur alone in the tent.

* * *

><p>Arthur woke up that morning to find Alfred had already gone, leaving the pile of twisted sheets and pillows he had laid on the floor to sleep on deserted. Arthur rubbed a palm against his wet temple and pushed off the stray hairs that clung to his forehead. Whatever he had dreamt about that night had clearly disturbed him.<p>

Guessing that he was probably late for his shift since the eternally-tardy Alfred was already gone, he rushed to get ready. He stuck on his boots, buttoned up a shirt over his underclothes, and began to tiptoe down the stairs. It was still relatively early in the morning and he didn't want to wake up the elderly Hulets, who were stuck sleeping in the front room for as long as the soldiers were in town. To his surprise; however, Mr. Hulet was wide awake on the couch and Mrs. Hulet was nowhere to be seen.

"Good morning, sir," Arthur said and gave the older man a quick nod as he reached for the door.

"Morning," the man wheezed, then broke out into a coughing fit. Arthur paused, his hand still hovering over the doorknob. He looked over at Mr. Hulet, who was clutching his chest.

"Sir? Are you okay, sir?" Arthur abandoned the door knob and rushed over to the elderly man. Claude, however, waved him away.

"I'm fine," he said in, to Arthur's surprise, near accent-less English.

Arthur looked down at the man with widened eyes. "Y-your English…" His inability to finish made Mr. Hulet laugh.

In between coughs, he asked Arthur, "What were you expecting? I used to live in England."

"Then why are you here?" Realizing that his tone was a little more than slightly accusatory, he blushed.

Mr. Hulet laughed once more. "I grew homesick. I moved back here, married Cotilde, and never looked back." He beckoned for Arthur to join him on the couch, obviously wishing to continue his story. The cushions were so old that the two men found themselves sinking towards the middle.

"Would you like some tea?" Claude got to his feet, albeit with a lot of difficulty due to the sunken cushions and his old joints. He was clutching his chest again, which alarmed Arthur.

"Sir, why don't you lie down? I'll help you to bed." Arthur grabbed a hold of the elderly man's arm. Although Claude resisted at first, his cough got the better of him and the pair began a slow march up the stairs. Arthur brought Mr. Hulet over to the bed and then ran downstairs to grab a glass of water.

"Here you are." He watched as Mr. Hulet tried to steady his shaky grasp on the cup. "How long have you had that cough?"

Claude gulped the entire glass of water down and then leaned back onto the stack of pillows. "A few months now. The only doctor in town is gone. He enlisted."

"You ought to see one of the soldiers about it-"

Claude shook his head violently. "No, I wouldn't want to impose."

"Then I'll treat you. I've had some training," Arthur rushed to explain, hoping the old man wouldn't write him off. He was itching to do some more medical work, to feel like all of the time he had spent training wasn't a complete waste.

"Well… I suppose it's the least you could do. You are staying in my home," Mr. Hulet teased. "What do you think I have?"

Arthur removed one of his gloves and laid his bare knuckles against the man's forehead, which was blazing hot. "You've all the symptoms of a cold, and you say this has been going on for months?" Arthur knew the most likely culprit was pneumonia. He also knew that if it was, Mr. Hulet was very unlikely to survive.

He removed his hand from Claude's forehead and replaced his glove. "I'm not quite sure, sir. I'll get back to you when I figure it out."

* * *

><p>"Where have you been?" Francis asked as he and Alfred watched Arthur make his way onto the field.<p>

"I was talking to Mr. Hulet," Arthur answered. The unwavering stares of the two men made him slightly nervous. "Will you two quit looking at me?"

"Sorry, we've just never seen you late for anything. You're usually the first one ready for training," Francis explained with a shrug. He turned away, his gun resting against his shoulder.

"What were you and Mr. Hulet talking about?" Alfred asked. Once again, guard duty had left him restless, and he was busying himself by kicking a rock back and forth between his feet.

"Not much. He used to live in England, so we were talking about that."

"Really? So he speaks English?"

"Flawlessly. Better than most Americans I know," Arthur smirked. Feeling equally restless, he slid his foot between Alfred's and kicked the rock out from between the younger man's legs.

"Hey!" Alfred protested, although he was grinning. Both of them lunged for the rock in a bid to keep it away from the other.

Francis watched them, bemused. "Alright, children, that's enou-" He was interrupted midsentence as the rock flew his way and the two men came rushing towards him. Alfred, being a little less graceful than Arthur, tripped and fell onto Francis.

"I win!" Arthur bent down and picked up the rock, holding it up proudly between his gloved fingers. He turned around, waving it proudly in front of the two men entangled on the ground.

"Ouch, I really hurt my foot," Alfred groaned. "Could you help me up, Artie?"

"No. Serves you right, you clumsy git," Arthur snickered.

"Don't mind Arthur, he's just jealous you didn't fall on him," Francis joked as he got up to his feet and extended a hand to Alfred. The pair began dusting off the dirt that had coated their clothes in the fall.

"W-what?" Arthur bit his lip nervously. "That is…"

"Are you getting red?" Francis teased. He cackled and began walking back to his position in the tall grass.

"Be quiet!"

"Hey, calm down, Artie! It's just a joke," Alfred reassured him, although he was chuckling nervously, his eyes darting back and forth between the two men. Arthur tried to force a laugh in return, realizing now that his blow-up was more than a little suspicious.

Francis glanced over his shoulder. "Clearly it was a joke," he agreed, although his lips were still curled in a smirk.

Arthur's face was a deep crimson by now and he turned away to hide it, even reaching to push a few locks of hair into his face. "Don't talk to me for the rest of the day, frog." The rest of their shift passed in an uneasy silence.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I've had to look up a ton of medical things for this fic, like making a tourniquet, treating a bullet wound, and the symptoms of pneumonia... People who look at my web history will either think I'm a crazy survivalist or a hypochondriac. x) Anyways, thanks again to everyone following/favoriting/reviewing!**

**Also, fun fact, pneumonia is/was called "The Old Man's Friend", which explains this chapter's title. )**


	6. An Endless Field

Mr. Hulet was lying in bed, nesting in multiple piles of blankets. His illness had taken a turn for the worse and Arthur had convinced the elderly Hulets to take back their room, as they'd likely only be able to share it for a short while longer. He had finally told the elderly man about his pneumonia and overall the Hulets had taken it much better than Arthur could have expected.

After the embarrassing incident in front of Francis and Alfred, Arthur had asked to switch shifts to avoid the Frenchman, which unfortunately led to him seeing less of Alfred, as well. Whoever had guard duty was often gone by the time the other woke up or asleep by the time the other one got home. They had taken to leaving each other notes, the first one having started when Arthur finally spotted the rats infesting the Hulets' home: "You're right, Alfred, they're huge."

Claude shifted in bed and looked up at Arthur, who was sitting in the corner of the room in Cotilde's rocking chair. He set down his needlework when he saw Claude's bloodshot eyes set upon him. The old woman had gotten him to try embroidery on one of his days off, and he had become quite taken with it, although if anyone were to find out he would deny it. Cotilde was often absent, as she worked as a laundress for wealthier families around town, and Arthur was happy to help her along with her needlework.

"It's so dull…" The man croaked, his eyes darting from Arthur to the ceiling. "Dying is so dull." Arthur wasn't quite sure how to comfort the man and was left sitting up in the rocking chair awkwardly, his thick brows furrowed.

"Entertain me, son. Tell me a story."

"What sort of story, sir? A fairytale?"

Claude laughed. "I haven't got a use for fairytales. Tell me something real."

Arthur looked around nervously, as if something in the bedroom might give him a clue. "I haven't got a story. My life hasn't been as interesting as yours, sir."

"Why don't you tell me about the loud boy who eats up everything we have in the cupboard?"

Arthur laughed and settled back in the chair. Claude chuckled as well, although he was much quieter. "I want to know how such a nice, quiet boy like you came to be friends with Alfred."

* * *

><p>Arthur was standing outside the train station feeling like an idiot in his oldest brother's suit, which hung off him like he was a kid playing dress-up. The rest of the men were bidding goodbye to their loved ones, their parents and siblings and friends, but he stood alone pretending to be too preoccupied to notice his own loneliness.<p>

"I like your tie."

Arthur looked up to see a tall, bespectacled man smiling down at him. When he didn't reply, the man gestured towards Arthur's tie.

"Roosters, right? How unique." From most people, this compliment would seem disingenuous, but Arthur could tell the stranger was sincere.

"Well, now I feel like mine is boring," the other man continued as he pulled up his tie to inspect it. "Just red and blue stripes." He sighed, as if it was the most disappointing thing to have happened to him in a long while. He looked back up at Arthur and smiled, extending a hand. "Well, anyways, I'm Alfred."

"I'm Arthur. Nice to meet you." The two men shook hands then stood side by side on the landing, each watching the couples and families milling about.

"Did anyone come for you?" Arthur asked.

"My dad. He left early, though, said he didn't need to stick around. What about you?"

"My brothers couldn't make it."

"Maybe that's for the better. Look over there." Alfred pointed over at an older woman and another enlistee. The woman was bawling and clutching at the recruit's uniform dramatically, her black eye makeup spilling over her face.

"Embarrassing."

"Definitely," Alfred agreed.

"But it might be nice, y'know…. to have someone care that much about you leaving," Arthur said, his voice trailing off at the end as he thought about his own brothers' apathy. Alfred took notice of Arthur's dejected tone and watched the shorter man's face fall, while his own lit up as he got an idea.

"Oh, god…"

Arthur turned to face Alfred, who was standing with his head in his hands, his eyes spread wide.

"A-Arthur, I just met you, b-but…" Tears were falling now- Alfred was an impressive actor. "But if we're separated…" Alfred shook his head wildly, his blond hair flopping about.

Arthur burst out laughing. "Come off it!"

"Oh, I won't know what to do with myself, Arthur! Oh, god, why? Why have us meet here? Now?" Alfred pretended to faint, his hand pressed against his forehead. He caught himself before he actually hit the ground.

"You idiot! People are staring!" Arthur exclaimed. A few couples had turned to watch Alfred as he fake-bawled.

"I don't care! I don't care at all! Let them see!" But the gaping mouths of the onlookers proved to be too much for him, and he too began to laugh. He wiped the tears off his face with his sleeve and grinned up at Arthur from where he was crouched on the ground.

"Feel better?"

Arthur returned the grin and said, "Yeah, I sort of do."

"I'm glad! Stick with me, Artie, and I'll always be there to make you feel better!" Alfred gave Arthur an over-the-top wink and sprung to his feet. Although he was probably joking, the sentiment still pleased Arthur and made him forget his disappointment over his lackluster farewell. He had only just met Alfred, and already he knew this boy was far, far different from anyone he had ever met.

* * *

><p>"I'm sorry, Artie," Alfred whispered in the dark. His boot had hit Arthur's leg as he attempted to make his way to the couch. The boy felt faintly of grass and smoke and the smell filled the room.<p>

"It's fine," Arthur said, throwing the blankets from his body so Alfred could see the floor beneath, but Alfred ceased his advance toward the couch.

"I can't sleep, my brain's going a mile a minute," Alfred explained and he started walking back towards the door. "I'm gonna smoke outside."

"I'll go with you."

The pair stood on the outskirts of town, each holding their cigarettes loosely between their fingers. It was so dark that it would have appeared to anyone looking on like two tiny, orange lights were hanging suspended in the darkness.

Alfred stared out at the fields and Arthur watched the boy stand perfectly still for the first time, as if under a spell. He broke it when he asked, "Have you heard the newest death toll?"

Arthur shook his head, although it was pointless, as Alfred wasn't looking. "No, what is it?"

"It's better not to know."

Arthur pursed his lips together. "We haven't got much longer here, do we?" The smoke curled out from his mouth as he spoke.

"No. Probably only a couple of days left. Most everyone is back on their feet," Alfred replied. Arthur's thoughts turned to Mr. Hulet, who was most definitely not back on his feet.

As if he could tell what Arthur was thinking, Alfred asked, "How's the old man doing?"

"He's not doing very well."

"It's a shame."

The wind was picking up now, making the grass whistle for the two men. The fields seemed to stretch out even further than Arthur remembered during the night, and Arthur thought they might go on forever. He imagined that the whole world could be seen from out here, out in the endless grass, and if that were true, how could there possibly be a war? It didn't make sense. He couldn't fathom it.

"Do you think- I mean, the death toll…" Arthur wanted to ask the question all the soldiers had been asking themselves when night fell, when no one could see their wet faces in the dark. _Do you think we'll make it through?_ But the words wouldn't come out.

The pair was silent, and then Alfred turned to face Arthur, a mischievous smile on his face.

"Push your lips out."

"W-what?" Arthur sputtered.

"Make an "o" shape. I'll teach you how to blow smoke rings, so you don't look like such a rookie when you smoke." Thankful for the distraction from his fatigue and troubling thoughts, Arthur was happy to take the lesson and the two men sat cross-legged in the wet grass, blowing smoke rings until early morning.


	7. The Calm

Night had given way to early morning and Arthur was standing in the Hulets' doorframe watching as, one by one, the families of the village awoke and smoke began to pour from their chimneys. Alfred was lying on the ground, still asleep, and for the first time Arthur had woken up before anyone else in the house.

Winter was rapidly approaching now. He could feel it in the way the breeze was crisper; sharper. He looked down at his uniform and began to play with his cuffs, absentmindedly stretching them out. It seemed like only yesterday they were new, starched and stiff. They had already been dirtied and bloodied, and he hadn't even set foot on the battlefield yet.

The converging sounds of Alfred's steady breathing, the quiet whisper of the wind, and the sleepy calls of the birds from somewhere up above threw Arthur into a sort of trance as he looked out at the village. It was the soft sound of leather shoes against dirt that startled him from his reverie. He looked up to see Daniels making his way to the Hulets' front door.

"Kirkland, follow me," was all the man said as he beckoned to Arthur.

* * *

><p>Arthur could see the man lying in the cot had once been handsome, with shocks of black hair and clear green eyes. If Arthur had only seen the right side, he never would've guessed.<p>

The right side of the man's face had been badly disfigured in a bombing, leaving it various shades of painful looking red and with an eye so swollen no green was visible. He had lost patches of hair and the smell of the burnt follicles still permeated the man. Although the patient's body was wrapped up in sheets, Arthur knew it must have been just as badly mangled.

The fact that the man's cot had been shoved in such a tiny room probably didn't help the pervading smell of burnt skin and hair that lingered about. An old hotel in the middle of town had been converted into an ersatz hospital in the wake of the soldiers' arrival, but there hadn't been enough rooms. Arthur figured the man's lodging had probably once been a closet of some sort.

Arthur was left standing awkwardly above the man in the cramped room while he waited for Daniels— who was digging through a drawer looking for something— to tell him what to do.

"Ah, here it is! Kirkland, you're going to help me out by bandaging his face. I've got one last man to put a splint on, and then we're out of here." He tossed the roll of bandages to Arthur and then sped out the door. Arthur was happy to see him leave, as he still felt uncomfortable around the doctor.

"I'm sorry if this hurts, but I'll have to hold your chin." The patient remained silent as Arthur took hold of his face and began winding the bandages.

"You must be happy to be getting out of here. They'll be sending you home, I'm sure," Arthur said in what he knew was a vain attempt to comfort the burned man.

The man remained silent once again, although he slowly shook his head "No".

Arthur's brow furrowed. "Really? You aren't happy to go back?

"I'm not going back. They won't let me," the man replied hoarsely, the pain evident in his voice.

Arthur nearly dropped the strip of bandages, but managed to catch himself and finish the roll. "They aren't letting you go home?" He took a seat near the burned man, dumbfounded.

"No."

Daniels entered the room before Arthur could reply. He inspected the man's face and then turned to look at Arthur. "Good show, Kirkland, you're dismissed. Tell Jones not to bother with guard duty, you should both pack up."

"What about evacuation, sir?" Arthur asked. Nobody in the village had been evacuated since they soldiers had arrived, and the threat of an attack on the village only grew more and more likely as news of the death tolls rose.

Daniels shook his head and then ushered Arthur towards the door. "There's no time. We need to leave for the front by nightfall," he explained. With a callous shove, he shut the door in Arthur's face.

* * *

><p>"We're just gonna leave everyone here, all these civilians! They're gonna get blown up out here!" Arthur wailed. The bottle of alcohol he had nicked from the medical supplies cabinet remained firmly in his hand throughout his outburst.<p>

It was already early evening and most of the soldiers had finished packing. Noticing a distinct change in Arthur's mood, Alfred had suggested they steal off to the field and drink, stopping by the old hotel to steal some booze. Francis wasn't invited, as Arthur was still angry, and Matthew had declined their invitation because his leg had begun to feel sore. Arthur and Alfred agreed that his limp appeared to be getting worse.

"Those old people… what's gonna happen, Alfred? The old man is gonna die and that old lady will have nobody. Nobody in the bloody world. That is— that is if she and this whole town don't get blown up first!" In his drunkenness and anger, Arthur's accent seemed to be even stronger than normal.

"I know, I know," Alfred said in his best attempt at a soothing voice. He seemed unsure of what to do, but reached out to place a steady hand on Arthur's shoulder. He felt the Briton stop shaking and lean into his palm.

"I feel sick," Arthur said.

"Then why don't you give me the bottle?"

Arthur took three more long swigs. "…No."

Alfred shook his head. "I don't know what to tell you, Artie. We can't do anything. Unless you want to stay here and desert."

Arthur was silent, a lump forming in his throat. "We should," he said quietly.

"Wouldn't that be something? Us staying here. You'd kill me though. You'd get sick of me."

"No."

"Yes, you would."

What was it? Was it the view, the way the black of the sky was reaching for the green of the earth? Was it the warmth spreading underneath his skin borne by alcohol? Was it Alfred's face, his laugh, his hand? Or was it everything? Was it everything working together that had been put into motion so long ago on that train station landing?

Whatever it was, it made Arthur lean forward to kiss Alfred. And whatever it was, it had not had the same machinations on Alfred, because in the darkness he could feel the boy's palm slip from his back to his shoulder to push him away.

The two men stared at one another. Somewhere in all this, a bugle sounded.


	8. The Storm

**A/N: Thanks again to everyone for favoriting/reviewing/following! :)**

* * *

><p>The bugle's sound plagued Arthur. When the grenades were going off and clods of dirt filled the air like a foreshadowing of the gas to come, all he could hear was the bugle: unassuming but oppressive, a siren song to lead the men to their death. And then there were the phantom limbs that would randomly appear to him. Not his own, but another's: two hands pushing him away with all their strength.<p>

But the instrument and the hands weren't that bad. It was the silence that killed.

"Gas!" Someone shouted. The boys pulled out their helmets—really just big cloth sacks with holes—and crouched down. Arthur glanced around through the grimy glass and suddenly got the urge to laugh at the sight of all these lanky, barely pubescent boys with their scarecrow-like masks on, holding guns like they knew what they were doing. And where was Alfred in this crowd of kids? On the far side of the trench, as far from Arthur as was possible.

* * *

><p>"What the hell was that?" Alfred yelled out over the sound of the bugle as he scampered to his feet.<p>

"I-I don't know," Arthur replied, shaking his head wildly. He remained kneeling in the dirt, perfectly still.

"Are you- are you a…?" Alfred bit his lip, as if willing the universe not to have a word for what he thought Arthur might be. "I mean, do you like…?"

"No! No, please…" But Alfred wasn't listening. He started to make his way back to the village. "Alfred, please!" Arthur lurched forward in the dark, his hand grabbing the crook of Alfred's arm. "It isn't like that. I-it was—it was a joke!" As the words leaped from Arthur's mouth in a confusing tumble, Alfred turned around sharply, leading Arthur to crash into his chest.

"Really? Well, I don't get the joke. Explain it to me."

"I-"

"What would've happened? If someone had seen?" Alfred was livid and the redness beginning to form on his cheeks were just a hint of the anger that boiled below the surface. Alfred's expression (and perhaps the sour turn the alcohol had taken in his stomach) made Arthur nauseous. He could feel the wetness in his eyes grow with his desperation.

"It was a mistake. Please… please don't tell."

"I wouldn't."

Arthur looked up, confused. Alfred's face was cold as he continued, "I would never. But don't expect anything else from me." The bugle sounded for the last time.

* * *

><p>How long had he been crouching? The soreness that ran along his thighs told Arthur it had been quite a while, as did the quickly sinking sun. He fired blindly into the dark as screams in English and German rang out.<p>

"Kirkland, Kirkland—" someone hissed, "-that's enough." A hand pulled him down into the trench. The hand belonged to Francis, who was busy smoothing his hair out after removing his gas helmet. Matthew and Alfred were crouched a few feet away.

"What time is it?"

"I haven't a clue," Matthew said as he rubbed his leg. His wound had left him much worse off than the rest of the boys and the pain was etched on his face. All around the tiny group was the nonsensical chatter of men hyped up on adrenaline.

"Let's go to the dugout," Francis said and soldiers began to stream out from the trenches, hands hovering above guns. That was their natural stance now.

* * *

><p>The men were shoved into the dugout like sardines; at least ten of them all packed in back-to-back or face-to-face. Inside the dugout was a motley collection of terrible smells and Arthur willed himself not to think of their sources. Lying on the dirt, he found himself wishing he was back in the Hulets' home. Their rats were much smaller than the ones that had crawled into the dugout.<p>

That night, to Arthur's embarrassment, he found his back pressed up against Alfred's. The pair hadn't spoken since the incident in the field and even such a minor interaction with Alfred made Arthur so nervous he began to sweat through his uniform.

Matthew was on his other side and facing him, his bad leg propped up on top of his good one. His eyes were closed, but Arthur could tell by his constant fidgeting that the boy was still awake. Arthur closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep.

"Arthur?" Arthur's eyes snapped open to the sight of Matthew staring at him. "S-sorry, but… have you seen Jameson?"

Arthur propped himself up and scanned the dugout, but there was no sign of the young recruit. He hadn't come back to the dugout.

"I'll go look for him," Arthur whispered as he got to his feet.

"You're not going alone," Matthew replied. He attempted to stand up, but the pain in his leg was so bad he winced with every movement.

"I'll be fine," Arthur assured him. As he spoke, Arthur began the arduous task of maneuvering around the sleeping bodies.

"Al, are you still awake? Can you go with Arthur?" Matthew whispered as he leaned forward to shake Alfred's shoulder. Arthur nearly tripped over Francis in his alarm. He had to bite his tongue to keep himself from screaming out for Matthew to stop, but he still found himself pausing in the entryway, waiting for Alfred's response.

"Of course."

* * *

><p>In only a week it seemed like the pair had aged so quickly. Arthur was constantly exhausted and he had begun to notice a distinct creak in his joints. As for Alfred, Arthur had noted the lines that were quickly forming beneath the boy's blue eyes.<p>

"Where should we search?" Arthur asked, but Alfred didn't answer. The boy stalked the edges of the long trench they had dug, his eyes slowly moving across every pebble.

Arthur sighed. "You're never going to talk to me again? Is that it?" He stopped walking and crossed his arms over his chest.

It was so dark that the only way Arthur knew that Alfred's head had turned was the glint of the boy's eyeglasses. "Fine. Want me to talk?"

"Yes."

"What does the kid look like?"

Arthur frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"Jameson."

"Brown hair, short. Uniform's too big for him." Arthur walked over to where Alfred was standing. The younger man pointed a long, shaking finger into the trench at a boy who unfortunately matched Arthur's description.

The pair stood in silence as they took in the sight. Jameson's body looked like that of a small ragdoll's that had been carelessly tossed aside. His boots had been removed as if someone had intended to steal them, but thought the better of it. The whiteness of his socks against the black earth seemed to Alfred and Arthur to be particularly jarring.

"What do we do?" Arthur asked.

"Bring him back, I guess," Alfred said as he jumped down into the trench. Arthur followed him in. Arthur took a hold of the boy's shoulders and Alfred grabbed his legs. They spun him around to get his face out of the dirt and found the boy's gas helmet pressed into the earth by the weight of his body. He had been too slow in putting it on.

The soldiers buried him the next day in an unmarked grave, the only map to its existence an already fraying memory in their minds.

* * *

><p>"Another night of this, I'll take my own life," Francis griped as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. He and Arthur were kneeling down in the trenches, firing off shots in some sort of sick pattern: Francis. Arthur. Francis. Arthur.<p>

"It's quieting down," Arthur said, although he couldn't be quite sure. There were sometimes lulls where it seemed like everything was over, and then someone would fire off another shot and the whole thing would start fresh.

"How do you think Alfred and Mattie are doing?" Francis asked. The two boys were in a different trench.

"Fine, I'm sure," Arthur grunted.

"What happened between you two?"

"Helmets, boys!" Someone yelled out, and Francis and Arthur both patted their heads. They had forgotten in the chaos that they were already wearing them.

"What do you mean?"

Francis laughed. "You know what I mean. You two were inseparable. Now you barely talk."

"We did when Jameson died."

"Oh? About?" But Arthur didn't answer.

"Suspicious," Francis said teasingly, but he didn't press on.

The lull in the battle settled in and the men slid back down into the trench. It was only in the quiet moments that they realized how cold it had become as the season wore on and they sat there in the dirt shivering in their wet clothes. Amidst the incoherent conversations that had begun in the silence, a soft sobbing could be heard from further down the trench. Arthur looked up to see a young recruit rocking back and forth, his lips quivering. Another man's body was lying at his feet.

"Who is it?" Arthur asked.

Francis turned his back on the scene, his eyes suddenly fixated on the dirt. "Who can keep track anymore?"


	9. No Prayers Nor Bells

The shots were spaced out at first, loud cracks every once in a while, broken up by heavy silence. And then they started to come nightmare fast, rapid fire, one after another. Arthur couldn't tell where the fighting was happening, but he knew it was far away from him. His fellow soldiers, perhaps only due to familiarity with the raging bullets, had even felt secure enough to pull out cigarettes and smoke. The trench was soon dotted with little orange bulbs.

"Looks like we're heading to the dugout," Francis mumbled in between drags.

The men shuffled out of the trench, the sound of their footsteps covered by the incessant sound of guns going off.

Most of the men tumbled to sleep as soon as they crawled into the dugout, their noses pressed against either loose earth or scratchy blankets. Francis and Arthur; however, were wide awake, still wired from the cigarettes.

"No Matthew or Alfred," Francis noted as he counted the bodies of the slumbering soldiers.

"I hadn't noticed," Arthur lied.

"I feel like I'm suffocating in here," Francis said, his hands running along the low ceiling. Bits of dirt fell on his head as he did so.

"Then let's go outside."

The two men stood shivering out in the cold, their sleeves pulled down over their hands. Francis lit another cigarette while Arthur busied himself by chewing on his drying lips.

"You never told me what happened between you and Alfred," Francis said, the smoke wiggling out from between his lips like little ghosts.

"It's none of your business, that's why."

"I see. You know, war is a funny thing. It can make you feel things you normally wouldn't. Like a pressure cooker for the emotions, no?" Arthur wasn't sure—it was much too dark—but he felt almost certain that Francis was smirking.

"I have no idea what you mean. And that was a painful metaphor."

"Well, I—oh? Who's this?" Francis' attention turned towards a trio of hazy outlines approaching the dugout. "Over here!" Francis called out as he waved to the silhouettes. His hand dropped to his side when he saw who the shadows were, and what they were carrying.

As they came into view, Arthur could see that Alfred's face was red and tearstained, his glasses hanging on for dear life to the edge of his nose. Blood—not his own, but Matthew's, as they would later find out—was drying on his uniform. He and another soldier were cradling Matthew's body in their arms.

* * *

><p>About twenty soldiers that Arthur could name died that day, and many more he couldn't. It made him just the tiniest bit sick to know that to others, it was Matthew that was nameless.<p>

It was his leg's fault. It had crippled him in a critical moment as Matthew and the rest of the boys were ambushed. He wasn't fast enough on his feet and his chest was soon ballooning with lead. Alfred had been on the other side of the trench helping another boy with his gas helmet while his friend was bleeding out. All of this was relayed to Francis and Arthur by a somber Alfred.

One of the generals had tried to leave Matthew's body unburied, but relented when he saw Alfred looking like he was about ready to implode at the thought. The general allowed them a little time to bury their friend, before trench digging duties.

The weather was a disaster that day, with howling winds and icy rain, leaving the only people to attend the burial Francis, Arthur, and Alfred. The three men stood together in a cluster around the shallow grave in a vain attempt to keep it from filling up with water. Matthew's body had been placed inside gently, his clothes washed to get out the bloodstains as best they could. His face was peaceful, almost angelic, as if he had never been touched by pain.

Arthur was the first to speak. "Matthew was one of the kindest men I've ever met. Gentle, loyal… always there to brighten the day. He was ready to give up everything to help someone else," he choked out.

Francis stepped forward as he said his part. "Me and Matthew, we were friends from the first day. He went up to everyone to introduce himself, to make sure they weren't too nervous. He didn't want anyone to feel alone, because… he knew how lonely it might get out here. And he was right." Francis was glad that the rain was coming down so hard now, the drops camouflaging the bits of water that were escaping from his bloodshot eyes.

Alfred was last and his eyes were locked onto Matthew's face throughout his entire speech. "The last thing Matthew ever said to me… we were both in the trench and it was filling up with rain… he said—he said it reminded him of how he liked to splash in puddles when he was a little kid. That's what I liked about him. Even through all of this, through everything we've seen, he could still hold on to happier times. And that's…" he cleared his throat and rubbed his palms against his eyes. "—t-that's what we have to do for him. We have to hold onto the happier times."

They filled the earth in silence, each dropping in dirt with their own hands. A shovel wasn't good enough—those were what created the trenches in the first place, the trenches being Matthew's first grave. When the body had been completely covered in earth, Arthur poked a finger into the dirt and traced out Matthew's name and age, so that if anyone walked by they could see who the war was really killing. Kids. Just kids.

The three of them stood in the rain until they were called back, but they could've stayed forever.

* * *

><p>The end to the war was imminent. That was the news on every man's lips and it spread like wildfire over the sound of battles being fought. There were some men who cheered at the thought of being home for the holidays, and others who couldn't even imagine it. The idea of home, the idea of security… it all seemed like a dream.<p>

The irony of their friend being cut down just weeks before the end was not lost on Alfred, Francis, or Arthur. Matthew's death had slithered into their psyches and changed their dynamic forever. Francis, who had been closest to Matthew, suffered the worst, and was nearly sent home early in light of his deteriorating mental health. In the days following the burial, he refused to speak.

Alfred had also changed. The death of his friend had solidified a newfound maturity that had been planted as soon as their platoon had entered battle. Alfred had also ceased giving Arthur the silent treatment, realizing now how quickly any of them could disappear forever.

And, as for Arthur, Matthew's death was motivation to see the war through to the very end.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: We're nearing the end now! Thanks for reviewing/favoriting/following!**


	10. We Blaze Away

Alfred and Arthur had taken to patrolling at nighttime, looking and accounting for their fallen comrades. It made them feel better to know that, at the very least, there were two people to acknowledge the dead amidst the chaos of war. It was also a good way to avoid the insomnia that crept on them as they lay still at night.

"Do you see anybody?" Alfred asked as they peered into the first trench.

Arthur shook his head. "No. Let's keep going."

They walked along the steep edge, hands in pockets to keep warm. Arthur could feel Alfred's eyes on him, and he glanced over at the bespectacled young man.

"What's the matter? You look sick."

Alfred's eyes were focused on the ground. "Do you remember when you asked me what I wanted to do when this was over? The war, I mean."

Arthur looked straight ahead as he replied, "Of course."

"I said that all of this was better than working a stupid job. And I just wanted to tell you that I was wrong." His eyes locked with Arthur's and he pursed his mouth so tight it looked like a straight line. "It's so much worse."

Arthur's voice cracked as he replied, "I know."

The pair stopped at the end of the trench, shuffling their feet to keep warm. The prospect of going back to the dugout appealed to neither of them.

"Do we have to go back?" Arthur asked, his eyes peering up at the night sky. A few stars had managed to peek through the clouds.

"Nah."

The pair sat down in the watery dirt, each looking up at the stars. Arthur could feel Alfred shifting beside him nervously, working up the courage to say something.

"Arthur, I'm sorry about how I treated you," Alfred finally said.

Arthur closed his eyes and turned his head away. "I forgive you. It's over." But he tensed up, slightly afraid of where the conversation might venture. They hadn't talked about the kiss and Arthur had hoped they never would. Unfortunately, Alfred didn't want to let it go.

"Do you… I'm sorry, I don't mean to harp on it, but I'm curious… do you still feel the same way?"

"…Yes," Arthur replied quietly. He hadn't meant to say it, but a lack of sleep mixed with a sore and aching body had delivered him into delirium.

"Can I ask when they started?" Arthur felt a flash of annoyance. Alfred didn't want to give it up.

"When I met you. At the train station." Arthur opened his eyes to look at Alfred, whose face looked crestfallen, as if Arthur's admission was physically hurting him. "Let's not talk about it anymore."

"Have you always? Liked men, I mean? I've never met a—"

"I'm not," Arthur cut him off abruptly. "And no, never."

"Then how can you be sure?"

Arthur closed his eyes again and turned away. He suddenly had the desire to roll down into the trench himself. "Can you stop? I'm sure, alright? And I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable—I know it would've been bad if they'd seen. You don't think I haven't thought about that? So, I'm sorry. I know you'll never return my feelings…" His voice trailed off, the hysteria that had been building up inside him dying out as soon as the words rushed forth.

He heard Alfred breathe in sharply. "Maybe. Maybe I could."

"Maybe…?" Arthur couldn't help the feeling of hope that surged through him, although he knew it was false. His eyes snapped open.

"Well, I mean, did you ever think you'd love a man?" Alfred was avoiding Arthur's eyes. "Who knows?" He said quietly, nervously fidgeting with a loose button on his uniform.

And then, suddenly, Alfred looked up angrily. "Even if I did, or do, have feelings for you—what did you think was going to happen? We could never be together."

Arthur leaned forward, his eyes desperate to meet Alfred's. "I could move to the States," he said.

"You know that isn't what I mean. If we don't get killed in the war, one look at us holding hands or whatever… we'll be killed then." Alfred shook his head.

"It could be a secret," Arthur said.

"Would that be enough for you?"

Arthur wanted to say "yes", but he wasn't sure. Could it be enough to love Alfred in secret? Could he live his whole life that way?

Arthur swallowed hard. It felt like a pit had formed in his stomach. "But if it were different? Would you?"

Alfred's eyes were downcast, his hands balled into gloved fists. When he looked up and their eyes met, his face softened.

"If it were different. But it isn't. I—I wish it was."

* * *

><p>It was a week now until the end of the war. Arthur and Alfred realized that their nighttime walks would soon come to an end, but they never discussed it. It was on one of the last nights that they finally met the enemy face-to-face. That night they had walked much further than ever, finding body after body. The grenades and gas had done an excellent job that morning.<p>

"Do you hear that?" Alfred asked, pausing in his tracks. It was the sound of heavy breathing.

"I think it's coming from over there," Arthur replied, and the two men ran to the trench, but before they could locate the source of the breathing, the source found them.

The man sprung from the trench like a caged animal finally set free. His revolver was free of bullets, so he leapt at the pair with a knife. The other soldier screamed in an unknown language at Arthur and Alfred, but although they couldn't tell what he was saying, they knew it was nothing sweet.

"Stop!" Arthur yelled out. "We don't want to hurt you!" But the man couldn't understand. He rushed at Arthur with the knife and Arthur reached for his gun, ready to strike if necessary. But it wasn't.

Alfred had grabbed the man from behind and removed the knife from his clammy fingers. With a deft motion, he took the butt of his own gun and smacked it against the man's temple. The soldier crumpled up like paper.

Arthur slipped a hand over his heart, feeling its quick and loud beat. He put away his gun and made his way over to the man, kneeling down next to him as Alfred had already done. The younger man's face was pale and sweaty, his hands trembling as he searched for the man's pulse.

In the moonlight they could see the shine of the man's glasses and his thick brown hair. Despite Alfred's powerful strike, he was not dead yet, although his breath was labored and ragged.

He looked from Arthur to Alfred, and then back again, his eyes darting around wildly. The end was near. His final word, the only one Alfred and Arthur could understand, was a name: "Elisaveta." And with that he shut his eyes. They set his body down in a ditch next to that of a fallen comrade, a big and burly soldier with slicked-back blond hair. The pair said nothing as they walked back to the dugout.

Neither wanted to go inside, each knowing that the night's events would follow them into their dreams, so they continued walking with the winter chill as a third companion. A half hour passed before one of them spoke.

"Who do you think Elisaveta was?" Alfred asked, his voice unusually somber.

"Maybe his girlfriend. He looked pretty young."

"Could be his wife. They could have children," Alfred's voice broke on the last word.

"…Maybe," was all Arthur said.

"When you shoot from the trenches, you don't really think about it. But close up…" Alfred began to shake and Arthur knew it wasn't just from the cold. Alfred removed his glasses and placed his hands over his eyes before Arthur could see whether they were wet or not.

Arthur wanted to reach out and embrace Alfred until his face was dry and the shaking had ceased, but he didn't. Instead he placed a lame hand on the younger man's shoulder and pretended not to notice the sniffling.

"I'm so tired, Arthur. I just want it to end," Alfred choked out.

"It's almost over."

"Yeah, the fighting is almost over… but everything else? Everything we've seen? You and I know that won't go away." Alfred ripped the glasses from his face and Arthur could see the desperate look in his eyes. "I have to get away from this," Alfred continued, his body convulsing as he held in his sobs. Arthur's hand slipped off Alfred's shoulder, and to his surprise Alfred noticed.

"You can hold me—I don't care anymore," Alfred spat, his eyes fixated on some distant point in the dark. "I really don't."

It wasn't the romantic sentiment Arthur was looking for, but he went with it. He pulled the younger man into a hug and felt the American's body shake against his. Alfred's face was bent down due to his height in comparison to Arthur, and he could feel Alfred's warm breath against his neck. The shaking finally stopped.

They pulled apart and Alfred placed his glasses back on. "What are we going to do when this is over? What will happen to us?" It was a question Arthur had thought about often.

"We'll keep in contact," Arthur replied. "Won't we?"

"Yeah, we will," Alfred said. He looked like he wanted to continue, but instead fell silent.

"And we can visit each other," Arthur added.

Alfred smiled bitterly. "Yeah, we can take my private plane." The pair laughed, Alfred's outburst and the ticking clock on their friendship momentarily forgotten. Arthur pulled Alfred's arm towards the direction of the dugout.

"We ought to get back. I think you need to sleep," Arthur said.

"Fine. How many more nights do we have together, Artie?" Arthur could feel Alfred smirking beside him and Arthur felt the urge to throttle him: one minute he was sobbing, the next he was mocking Arthur.

But Arthur humored him. "Six more nights."

* * *

><p>There were men blinded, deafened, and lamed. They all stood clustered now, waiting for a train like they had so long ago, when they were so much younger. This time the air was still, the noise level barely over a whisper. These were defeated men, despite the victory their countries had claimed.<p>

Arthur, Alfred, and Francis were one of the lucky ones. Unscathed in body, though not in mind. The three men stood together waiting, a gap between Francis and Arthur where Matthew would've stood. It went unacknowledged.

They had a compartment by themselves, although Francis kept leaving to check how long it would be until he'd have to switch trains. He was much less talkative than he used to be, much more prone to silence. They didn't want to admit it, but Francis made the pair uneasy. They wanted to help, to talk about Matthew, but weren't sure how he'd react.

"Nearly time to switch," Francis announced as he reentered their compartment. "Time to bid adieu."

The men shook hands and promised to write, with Arthur promising Francis he'd take a train soon and visit his hometown. "You'll love it," Francis promised.

"I'm sure I will."

They watched him from the windows. It was strange to see him in his gaudy civilian clothes, his bright blue jacket contrasting against other men's gray or black coats. He'd lost weight too, the shoulders of his coat no longer measuring up with his diminished frame.

"We'll be reaching the airport soon," Alfred said as the train began moving again and Arthur closed the curtains. His expression was grim.

"We'll write to each other soon."

"Will your brothers be meeting up with you?" Alfred asked.

"Yes. Or, at least one of them will. Will your family?" Arthur replied.

"My mom will."

Alfred peaked out the curtain at the changing scenery. It had begun to drizzle, which Arthur found fitting for their dampened moods.

"Almost there," Alfred whispered.

"Alfred, can you promise me something?"

"What?"

"Will you go back to school?" Arthur asked, his tone and expression serious.

Alfred turned to face him, surprised, and then broke out into a smile. "I will. I promise."

With a lurch, they felt the train reach the station. They grabbed their bags and coats and hurried out onto the landing, working their way through the other homebound soldiers.

"It's so strange," Arthur said. "None of this looks right." He was staring up at the station, the now heavy rain drenching his blond head.

"We'll get used to it." But secretly, they both knew they never would.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Sorry for the delay between chapters. For some reason, this one was really hard to write. I had already written a draft of it a week ago, but I pretty much scrapped everything. x( The final chapter is already finished, though, it just needs to be edited a little, so it should be up soon! Thanks again to everyone following/favoriting/reviewing! :)**


	11. Armistice

**EPILOGUE**

"Dear Dr. Kirkland,

You are cordially invited by Mr. Alfred F. Jones to the Jones estate for a grand surprise. Bring nothing except yourself, a suitcase, and a good attitude (this last item might be hard for you). Mr. Jones sincerely hopes you will find the time in your busy schedule to visit him.

Eagerly awaiting your reply,

The Aforementioned Alfred F. Jones"

* * *

><p>It was raining hard when the ocean liner reached land and Arthur cursed his lack of an umbrella. He held a newspaper over his head as he hurried to the docks, the cold water dripping off the pages in blackened drops.<p>

Arthur looked around for Alfred, his eyes scanning the crowd. He finally spotted the American in the middle of the dock, his face stretched out in a smile and his arms waving wildly. "Arthur!" He exclaimed as soon as he saw him get closer.

"It's pouring," Arthur complained when he reached Alfred, although the Englishman was grinning.

Alfred smirked. "I knew you were coming so I made it rain."

They laughed and then stood in the rain looking at one another awkwardly, unsure of what to do. Eventually, Alfred pulled Arthur in for a brief hug. "It's really nice to see you," he said.

"You too."

They made their way to the car quickly, trying to avoid the rain as much as possible. Alfred tossed Arthur's suitcase into the backseat, which roused another complaint from the Briton.

"Hey, watch—"

"How's life in London?" Alfred interrupted as he started the car.

Arthur sighed, dropping his complaint. "Good, very good. The practice is going well."

"I'm glad."

Arthur watched the scenery change outside the window of the car, the buildings surrounding the airport morphing into sparse fields. "Have you heard anything from Francis?"

Alfred laughed. "Only about his new profession. A romance writer, it fits him."

Arthur chuckled in return. "Have you read one of his books?"

"You'd have to pay me."

The car pulled up to a small, white house. Alfred reached back to grab Arthur's suitcase and then led the other man through the front door. Arthur had to stop himself from saying something biting about how Alfred's house was far from an estate.

"Well, this is the palace. Nice, right?" Alfred laughed as he took Arthur's coat. He paused halfway up the stairs to inspect the jacket. "Very fancy, Artie! I bet you're glad you took my advice on becoming a doctor, eh?"

"Right, it's all because of you," Arthur replied sarcastically.

Alfred came back downstairs and showed Arthur into the dining room. Arthur smiled when he saw the table had been set and a pot of tea—Earl Grey, his favorite—was waiting for them, along with some homemade scones.

"This looks great, Alfred. I didn't know you had it in you."

Alfred beamed at the praise and the two men each took a seat. "I learned to make these especially for you," he replied. Arthur took a bite of the scone and smiled—chocolate chips. Alfred could never fight the urge to add in just a little more sugar.

"Good, huh? The recipe didn't seem sweet enough, so I tossed in some chocolate."

"They're very…interesting."

"Thanks!" Alfred exclaimed.

"This is the first time I've seen your house," Arthur said. He wanted to add that it felt a little strange, as Arthur had often tried to guess what it looked like.

Alfred nodded in response as he chewed on a bit of scone. "That's true. I would've gone back to London, but my surprise for you was here. Plus, you've never visited America before." He swallowed. "So, how do you like it so far?"

"Well, I've really only seen the airport and your house," Arthur replied.

Alfred laughed. "That's true. We'll have to go sight-seeing."

The two were silent as they finished up the tea. "What have you been up to lately?" Arthur asked, breaking the silence. "Until the invitation, you hadn't written me a letter in quite some time…" Arthur tried to sound casual, but in truth his curiosity was bubbling over.

Alfred swallowed another large bite of scone. "Oh, sorry about that. I've been really busy."

Arthur's fingers were busy breaking off pieces of his scone and scattering them around his plate. "Oh? Busy with what? …Or whom?"

Alfred didn't answer right away, and then – to Arthur's surprise – burst out laughing. "Busy working on your surprise! Jeez, what did you think?"

It was a question Arthur didn't want to answer. "What is the surprise, anyway?" Arthur asked, in an attempt to divert the conversation away from his jealousy.

Alfred smirked and Arthur could've sworn his eyes were sparkling. "You'll get your surprise after tea. But—" Alfred paused for effect, which made Arthur roll his eyes, "—you'll have to wear a blindfold."

"I—what? Alfred…"

"Do you want your surprise or not? If you see where we're going, you'll guess what it is."

Arthur furrowed his thick brows. "Fine," he consented. "But you better not take me somewhere weird," Arthur warned him as he slipped the blindfold over his eyes.

"Don't worry," Alfred replied and Arthur could feel the younger man begin to steer him by the shoulders. He heard the front door open, and then Arthur was led back into the car. He heard the seatbelt click over his chest and then the car starting.

Arthur settled back against the chair. "Your car's nice, Alfred. You must be doing very well at your job to afford it," Arthur said, trying to make conversation, although it was quite awkward with the blindfold on.

"I'm doing okay," Alfred admitted. "You have a car, too, though, don't you?"

"Oh, right. I forgot I told you about that. It's hard to keep track of what we write in letters," Arthur lied. He remembered everything Alfred had ever written him.

"I suppose. Maybe you'd remember your letters better if you weren't drunk when you wrote them," Alfred teased.

"It was just the one time," Arthur replied crossly.

Alfred laughed. "It's a pity mail takes so long, it's so entertaining."

"I wish we lived closer. Maybe I should move my practice here," Arthur half-joked. It was a thought he'd entertained many times when the loneliness of the city life began to feel unbearable or when the nightmarish vestiges of the war returned to him in sleep. Alfred said nothing, merely smiled, and the pair rode the rest of the way in silence. It was an hour before the car stopped and Arthur heard the door on his right open.

"Let's go," Alfred said, steering the Briton once more. They walked for a while through what Arthur figured was a field of grass from the blades rubbing against the fabric covering his ankles. Eventually the grass was replaced by the echoing of footsteps and Alfred let go of Arthur's shoulders.

"You can take the blindfold off now."

Arthur removed it and was treated to the sight of a hangar and a large object obscured by a sheet standing a few feet from them. Arthur looked over at Alfred, who was positively beaming with pride.

"I wanted you to be the first to see it, Artie."

Arthur smiled, although he was confused. "What is it?" He asked.

"As you know, I went back to school, just like I promised you—for engineering. My boss has taken quite a liking to me and he chose me to design something to commemorate the war, so I designed this. Are you ready?"

Arthur nodded, holding in his breath. Alfred gripped the sheet between his fingers and pulled it off slowly, savoring the reveal. Arthur gasped.

It was a plane. Red, white, and blue: the colors they had in common. The colors were painted on the wings, wings that could soar far above vast oceans and left-over trenches and long-evaporated gas. Far away from men rotting in the ground and others that were culled in fields. Away from prying eyes and loose lips. A sort of symbol.

But whatever it symbolized was lost to Arthur. Instead, his thoughts were on the hand that had reached for his in the silence and it was as if it was he himself that was flying far, far away.

**THE END**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Once again, I had a pretty tough time editing the chapter! I almost scrapped the whole thing and made it about Arthur in therapy (how fun!). So, sorry again for the lateness... Anyways, thanks one final time to everyone who has favorited/reviewed/or followed the story. :) I almost gave up on it a few chapters ago, but knowing that there were people waiting for it kept me going.**


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